The Great Christmas Knit Off. Alexandra Brown
Читать онлайн книгу.
pick up the newspaper and wander over to the phone on the nightstand next to the bed, and take a deep breath. OK, I can do this. It’s just a phone call. The number is ringing. One, two, three, four bbrrrrring-bbrrrrrrings. And then I get cold feet and quickly end the call. I sit on the bed. Basil is staring at me with his head tilted to one side as if to say, ‘You big wimp, get a grip, Sybs!’ So I do, and lift the receiver back up. This time I’m going to speak – I’ll just say ‘Hi, it’s Sybs,’ in my best breezy voice, and the man with the kind-looking eyes will say, ‘Hi, I’m so pleased you called,’ and we’ll have a laugh about Basil trying to pinch his Costa cake, and it’ll be brilliant. Yep, of course it will.
The phone stops ringing.
There’s a pause.
And then: ‘Tindledale Books, how may I help you?’
It’s a woman’s voice, which completely throws me, so I promptly slam the phone down.
Basil is right. I am a big wimp – but at least I now know where to find the mystery man from the train.
Invigorated by this key milestone in my as-predicted-by-a-monk year of heartache, I press an index finger down too hard on the brass bell, nearly causing it to shoot right off the reception counter. Luckily, I manage to grab it just in time and I’m carefully placing it back where it belongs, when Lawrence appears through an archway from behind a crimson velvet curtain.
‘OK, OK, where’s the fire?’ he asks, making big eyes and pulling a face. It makes me giggle.
‘Er, no fire, I just wanted to return this.’ I hand him a Clarice Cliff crocus pattern tea plate.
‘Oh, you didn’t need to bother with all that. You’re a guest, just leave it outside the door next time.’
‘Thank you, but I didn’t like to. It’s such a pretty plate. Art Deco. I wouldn’t want it to get damaged.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you. I just came off the phone with Sonny – he rang to say that if you want to call in later for your dinner, he’s doing steak and ale pie with hand-cut chips followed by sticky toffee pudding for today’s special.’ It takes me a moment to realise that he’s talking about Cher’s Clive at the Duck & Puddle.
‘Ooh, sounds delicious.’
‘Does, doesn’t it? Very hearty winter food and talking of which, how was the stollen cake?’ He glances down at the crumbs left on the plate as he takes it from me to store under the counter.
‘Mmm, delicious, thank you.’ I smile. ‘Lawrence, I was wondering if you might help me with something.’
‘Of course. Always happy to oblige if I can.’ He pats a stack of tourist information leaflets offering two for one tickets to Santa’s grotto at a garden centre in Stoneley into a tidy pile, before tilting his head to one side and smiling at me encouragingly.
‘I was wondering where the nearest shops are to buy clothes – jeans, underwear, that kind of thing? And some suitable footwear for walking in snow – I wasn’t expecting it and I can’t believe how deep it gets here in the countryside.’ I make big eyes. ‘And I should probably get a mobile phone too; I don’t want to get stranded again with no means of even calling a taxi. And maybe a hairbrush, toothbrush and some make-up because I forgot to bring mine and the stuff that I did remember to bring is ruined after wine spilt all over it and … well, I thought I might go for a wander around the village, maybe pop into the pub for today’s special.’ I smile. And Tindledale Books too! I know I panicked when the woman answered but I’m still intrigued to know why the man on the train, who I’m guessing must be something to do with the bookshop, would leave a flirty message on a newspaper for me, but I can hardly venture out in soaking wet jeans that cling to my legs like a pair of needy toddlers, squelchy Converse trainers and hair that resembles a cuckoo’s nest to find out.
Lawrence falls quiet for a moment, and then lets out a long whistle before looking me straight in the eye.
‘OK, clothes I can help you with. Make-up too. But a mobile phone?’ He shrugs and shakes his head. ‘Well, there’s really no point.’ I frown, wondering why on earth not. ‘No signal for miles around,’ he quickly adds as if reading my mind. ‘Although I think someone said Dr Darcy – he’s the village GP – can occasionally get one bar, but only if he’s in his loft conversion, hanging out of the skylight window with his arm waggling in the air.’
‘I see.’ Blimey, Tindledale really is a blast from the past and I wonder if this Dr Darcy is anything like his famous namesake, Jane Austen’s dastardly Darcy? Probably not: I’m imagining a kindly, traditional country doctor in a tweedy suit who looks as if he’s just taking a break from an episode of Heartbeat so his matronly secretary can bring him Garibaldi biscuits with a nice cup of Darjeeling.
‘Does that go for broadband too?’ I ask, thinking there’s no time like the present to peruse online to see what hand-stitched quilts are selling for.
‘Oh no, we have our own village hub or whatever it’s called, so we get superfast internet, and there’s a laptop for guests to use in the conservatory; just give me a shout when you want to log on and I’ll set you up with the password and everything,’ he says, cheerily. ‘Although it does tend to slow down a bit when all the villagers jump on of an evening to download their Sky Box Sets, so you might want to avoid the teatime period.’
‘Brilliant,’ I grin.
‘And as for a taxi?’ Lawrence laughs, making his shoulders bob up and down. ‘You could try Tommy Prendergast in the village store, but he only takes bookings for after 4 p.m. when the shop is closed and then you’ll have to put up with him complaining about one of his many ailments for the duration of the journey. There’s a bus though, every hour on the hour, and you can go as far as Market Briar for just £4.’ He gives me a helpful look.
‘I see. And does the bus go from the stop in the village square?’ I ask, wondering if it’s walkable from the B&B. Last night, Pete drove the tractor in a loop round the top of the village, past the country club, before dipping down a long snowy tree-tunnel winding lane, so I’ve kind of lost my bearings a bit. Lawrence slowly places the map down on the desk and nods his head like he’s deep in thought, before lifting the hatch up and walking around the counter until he’s standing square in front of me with his hands resting on his slim hips, and a big kind smile spread across his face.
‘That’s right. Did you spot it on your way here?’
‘Yes, last night, and I met a man – a shepherd, um, er, sheep farmer,’ I correct. ‘He was waiting in the shelter for his wife who gave me a flashlight when she turned up. So kind.’
‘Ah, that would be Lord Lucan,’ Lawrence says with a deadpan face. It takes me a moment to cotton on.
‘Ha ha, you’re winding me up. Come on, I know there’s been speculation for years over the whereabouts of Lord Lucan – I saw the docudrama on TV not so long ago, but I think someone would have noticed if the actual Lord Lucan was hanging out in a bus stop in a snowy rural village late at night,’ I snigger.
‘Don’t laugh, Sybs, it’s true. That’s his name, Lord Lucan. Well, Lord Lucan Fuller-Hamilton to be exact. He and Lady Fuller-Hamilton live in Blackwood House – a breathtakingly beautiful Queen Anne mansion set in the grounds of the Blackwood Farm Estate.’
‘Wow, really?’ Well, it just goes to show how first impressions really can be very deceiving.
‘Yes, really. There’s no grandstanding in Tindledale – doesn’t matter who you are, or if you have an ancestral home here or not, we all rub along together. Did you call the number, by the way?’
‘I